


Appetite

by vitruvianwatson (keepyoureyesfixedonme)



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: All the time, Alternate Universe - College/University, Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Blow Jobs, Hand Jobs, John is a teasing bastard, M/M, PWP, Porn Without Plot, Rimming, Sherlock is impatient, There is no plot, This is all porn, basically I just wanted to make them 22 and 19, no seriously, not even the littlest bit of plot, seriously there is no plot, they're in uni but that's about as far as the unilock association goes, this is just five chapters of pure sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-03-04
Updated: 2015-03-04
Packaged: 2018-03-16 07:04:16
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 5
Words: 8,565
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/3478853
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/keepyoureyesfixedonme/pseuds/vitruvianwatson
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock kisses across John's chest, licking briefly but efficiently at his nipples and making John groan.  His lips travel slowly but surely down John's abdomen, his tongue dipping into his navel and swirling around in a frankly obscene manner, and John bites his lip, watching now with heavy-lidded eyes as Sherlock's hands curl around his hips, and he nuzzles his face against John's clothed erection.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> A special shoutout to [Cat](http://sherkitten.tumblr.com) for titling this ficlet for me because I'm shit with titles. If you're interested, you can follow me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).

Twenty-two-year old John Watson wakes up at 4 a.m. and reaches out groggily for the other side of the bed only to find that he’s alone.  He opens his eyes, blinks a few times, and then looks around, but the room is empty except for himself.  He hears a noise from the kitchen, so he rolls out of bed, pulls on his pajama pants, and pads out of the room, running a hand through his already ruffled hair as he walks down the short corridor in his flat to the tiny kitchen and finds nineteen-year-old Sherlock sitting up on the counter, wearing only one of John’s old, tattered rugby jerseys and eating straight out of a carton of ice cream.  He looks up, the spoon stuck awkwardly in his mouth, when he notices John leaning against the doorway.

John just smiles fondly and says, “Maybe next time you’ll listen to me when I tell you to eat dinner.”

Sherlock pulls the spoon out of his mouth with a pop.  “I wasn’t hungry then.  I’m hungry now.”

“Oh yeah?  Did I finally work up an appetite in you?” John asks, stepping into the room, toward Sherlock.

Sherlock rolls his eyes.  “You’d like to think that, wouldn’t you?”

It only takes three strides before John is standing in front of Sherlock, and he quirks an eyebrow expectantly.  Sherlock narrows his eyes a bit before digging the spoon back into the ice cream and then holding it out.  John winks and leans in, wrapping his lips around the spoon, his gaze deliberately glued to Sherlock’s as he swirls his tongue around it, and then he slowly pulls back off, sucking the chocolate dessert into his mouth, humming slightly at the taste.

Sherlock’s eyes narrow further, and he slowly lowers the spoon again.  “Was that little display my punishment for not eating a nutritional dinner?”

John just smirks and eases the spoon and carton out of Sherlock’s hands, placing them on the counter, before he’s stepping closer.  Sherlock’s legs part automatically, and John presses in between them, his hands sliding up Sherlock’s bare thighs.

“Mm, no, that was just incentive to get you back in my bed,” he says, leaning in to nuzzle at Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock leans his head back some, his arms coming up to wrap loosely around John’s shoulders, and he hums at the ceiling in response.  “I think you’ll have to do better than that.”

John grins.  “I was hoping you’d say that,” he murmurs, skimming his mouth along the edge of Sherlock’s jaw.  His hands push up beneath the jersey—he’s pleased to find that Sherlock is wearing no pants—where the skin of Sherlock’s belly is warm beneath his fingers, and he can feel a distinct shudder run through the younger boy’s abdomen.

“The ice cream is going to— _oh—_ melt,” Sherlock says, his voice going breathy and scarce as John bites gently into the side of his neck.

“Sod the ice cream,” John says, and then he sucks hard at the same spot on Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock lets out a small noise, somewhere between a sigh and a moan, and his fingers curl against John’s right shoulder and the back of his neck, blunt nails scratching lightly.  “We need to have a discussion about your obsession with marking me up,” Sherlock remarks, his attempt at sounding annoyed failing miserably.

John smiles against his neck and then briefly licks over the bruise he’d just sucked into that lovely, pale skin.  There are two more scattered further up from earlier that night.  His hands curve around Sherlock’s bony hips where he knows there are more marks in the shapes of his fingers, marks left three nights ago when he’d gripped those hips hard while Sherlock rode him.  “You love it,” he whispers against damp skin.

Sherlock doesn’t deny it, and John trails a line of kisses up the front of his throat, pausing to suck gently at his Adam’s apple, which bobs against his tongue when Sherlock swallows.

“Your mouth is still cold,” Sherlock breathes, and John can feel the vibration of the words against his lips.

He lifts his head, pulling one hand out from beneath that jersey to trail his fingertips along Sherlock’s jaw.  “Then warm it up for me, gorgeous,” he says.

Sherlock’s cheeks are flushed, pupils blown wide, nearly hiding the sea-foam green of his irises completely, and he doesn’t need telling twice.  The words have barely left John’s mouth when Sherlock is swallowing them down, lips already parted and molding themselves around John’s.  John’s hand slides up into that mess of dark curls, tendrils of hair wrapping around his fingers as he pulls Sherlock closer, sucking on the younger boy’s tongue as it slips into his mouth, and it’s only a few seconds before the chill leftover from the ice cream has evaporated in the heat of their combined lips.

John tugs very lightly on Sherlock’s hair, which never fails to elicit a moan, while his other hand slips down, brushing briefly over the curve of Sherlock’s arse and then back to his thigh, smoothing all the way down his leg until his fingers curl around Sherlock’s calf and he pulls, hitching that leg up around his waist and simultaneously pulling Sherlock forward on the counter some.  Genius that he is, Sherlock takes the hint, and his other leg immediately comes up to wrap around John’s waist as well, his ankles locking together.  John hums into the kiss as their erections line up with only the thin layer of his pajamas in between.  He braces one hand against the cabinets behind Sherlock’s head, and the other he slips around to the small of Sherlock’s back, beneath the jersey, holding him there while he rocks his hips, and Sherlock gasps, breaking the kiss as his head thumps back against the cabinets.

“Mm, sensitive tonight, aren’t we?” John murmurs, still rocking into the sensation and contemplating licking the newly formed sweat from Sherlock’s neck.

Sherlock’s legs tighten around him, his back arching and his hands wandering feverishly across John’s bare chest and abdomen.  “Shut up and fuck me,” he pants.

John pauses in his movements and raises an eyebrow.  “And impatient, too, I see.”

Sherlock squirms against him, trying to regain the lost friction.  “You haven’t fucked me in  _days,”_ he whines.

“I believe I recall giving you a pretty fantastic blow job earlier this evening, my dear,” John says dryly.

Sherlock practically growls with frustration.  “You  _know_  what I mean!”

John smirks and lets the hand that’s resting at the small of Sherlock’s back wander down further.  “Maybe I  _don’t_  know what you mean,” he says, leaning in to speak against Sherlock’s ear.  His middle finger rubs lightly at the sensitive skin right at the base of his tail bone, and Sherlock’s fingernails dig into his arms.  “You could mean so many things, you see.”

“ _John—_ ”

“You could mean you want my fingers,” John cuts him off, and he dips his hand lower, two fingers just barely slipping in between Sherlock’s plump arse cheeks.  “Or maybe you want my mouth?”  He licks into the hollow just behind Sherlock’s ear, tasting sweat and the slightest hint of expensive shampoo.  “Or perhaps you want— _ah—_ ”

John breaks off with a groan because one of Sherlock’s very capable hands is suddenly down his pants and wrapped around his cock, dextrous fingers squeezing gently and a warm palm stroking along his length.  John’s head drops to Sherlock’s shoulder, and he rocks into that grip because how can he  _not_  when it’s  _right there?_

“That’s cheating,” John complains, but he hardly cares, not with the way Sherlock tightens his grip and swipes a thumb over the head of his cock.  “Oh,  _god_ , do that again.”

Which is, of course, when Sherlock lets go, his hand slithering out of John’s pajamas as quickly as it entered.  John lifts his head to glare, and Sherlock bites his lip and smiles mischievously at him.

“Two can play at this game, John Watson.”


	2. Chapter 2

John’s eyes narrow into a glare, but then Sherlock smiles sweetly and lifts his thumb, which is glistening slightly with a drop of precome, and John’s mouth waters as Sherlock sucks it between his kiss-swollen lips, his eyes closing and a moan escaping him as if he’s never tasted anything so decadent in his life.

“You are such a little cock tease,” John breathes, and he yanks that thumb out of Sherlock’s mouth and replaces it with his own tongue, tasting just the barest hint of himself in Sherlock’s mouth as he kisses him roughly, both hands curving around Sherlock’s bare arse and squeezing hard.

Sherlock lets out a little squeak, and John smirks against his mouth as he digs his hands into Sherlock’s bum and uses his own body as leverage to pick Sherlock up off of the counter.  Sherlock pulls his head back some, and John latches onto that perfect neck once more as he turns them around and takes the two steps necessary to reach the table, which he, thankfully, cleaned off after he ate dinner.

Sherlock’s breath is coming in raggedly now, and when he asks, “Are you going to fuck me now?” he can barely get the words out.

John doesn’t answer.  He presses Sherlock back against the table until he’s sitting on it, bare arse against the wood.  John drinks in the sight of him, the rugby jersey falling off of one bony shoulder, showing off the bruises all along his neck, his teeth digging into his bottom lip, and he looks so bloody indecent that it takes all of John’s self control not to yank his own pajamas down and take Sherlock right then and there.

Instead, he takes a deep breath to calm himself a little, trying to force all of his blood to stop battling its way to his cock.  He slips his hands beneath that jersey again, skimming his palms up Sherlock’s sides, over his ribs, the shirt bunching up around his wrists as they go.  Sherlock licks his lips and lifts his arms, and John pulls the garment up and over his head, tossing it carelessly to the side once Sherlock has emerged.  

“Look at you, you beautiful thing,” he says, cupping Sherlock’s face in his hands.  The younger boy’s hair is even more ruffled than it already was, and John finds it so adorable that he can’t help leaning in to kiss him again, gentler this time, taking a little while to indulge in the perfection that is Sherlock’s mouth, pressing his tongue into that wet heat and then pulling back, over and over again in a slow imitation of what he’s planning next.

Sherlock’s hands skim down John’s sides, his long fingers toying with the waistband of John’s pants.  “ _John_ ,” he says urgently after a few glorious moments of roaming hands and parted lips, and John knows he’s getting impatient.  Well,  _more_  impatient.

So John abandons that lovely mouth and lets his mouth wander down, over Sherlock’s chin, down his throat, charting the same path he’d taken hours ago when he’d teased Sherlock’s cock with his tongue until the younger boy had been a squirming, writhing mess.  He pauses to close his lips around one of Sherlock’s nipples, and Sherlock immediately gasps and arches.  

John has always  _adored_  how very sensitive those nipples are; once, not long after they’d started sleeping together, he’d sucked, licked, and nipped at Sherlock’s nipples for  _hours_  while he fingered him, bringing him just to the edge over and over again before finally letting him come with John’s name hoarse and broken on his lips.  

“John, you’re  _killing me._ ”

Sherlock’s voice, practically a whine, breaks into the memory, and John takes one last taste of a now hard nipple before he straightens up, his hands smoothing up and down Sherlock’s sides.

“Such a drama queen,” he says with a fond smile.  Sherlock opens his mouth angrily, but John presses a hand over it and raises his eyebrows.  “Turn around, love,” he says.

He can practically see the relief flood Sherlock’s eyes, and the younger boy pulls him into one last hard, desperate kiss before he’s sliding off of the table onto his feet and turning, giving John a fantastic view of his backside, a sight he never gets tired of.

“You,” John says, stepping forward until his still clothed erection is pressed up against Sherlock’s bare bottom, “are indecent.”

He nips at Sherlock’s shoulders and grips his hips, pulling that arse back against his crotch and groaning as he rocks into the feeling.  Sherlock pushes back against him, encouraging him, full under the impression that John is about to put his cock inside of him, or at least his fingers.  Little does he know, John is planning on having a little bit more fun first.  

He presses one hand to Sherlock’s back, between his shoulder blades, and exerts the gentlest pressure.  “Bend over for me.”

Sherlock hums happily and then proceeds to bend over in as obscene a fashion as he can manage, slipping his hands along the table as he slowly leans forward until he’s leaning on his elbows, his arse stuck up in the air, and a wicked smile on his face when he looks back over his shoulder at John.

“Is this how you want me?” he practically purrs.

John steps right up against him again and leans over him, his hands pressed into the tabletop on either side of Sherlock’s nude body, and he parts his lips around the nape of Sherlock’s neck.

“Absolutely,” he breathes, mouthing slowly, teasingly downwards, pressing wet, open-mouthed kisses to every notch in Sherlock’s spine.  “You’re perfect.  Just like this.”

“Then  _fuck me_.”  Sherlock emphasizes this desire by arching and pushing his arse back against John’s cock again.

“Patience, darling,” John says, smirking as he kisses lower and lower, his hands moving to hold Sherlock’s hips in place.

“I am not known for my— _ah_ —patience,” Sherlock says, faltering when John’s fingers dig into his hips hard enough to bruise.

“Then allow me to teach you some,” John says, licking the sweat from the dip in the small of Sherlock’s back as he lowers himself down onto his knees.

“John, I swear to  _God_ , if you don’t—”

“Sherlock, have I ever failed to take care of you?”

“No, but—”

“And I always deliver when I say I’m going to, don’t I?” John presses, his hands releasing Sherlock’s hips to curve around his arse instead, fingertips digging into the soft flesh.

“ _Yes_ , but that’s—”

“Then shut up,” John says lazily, and then he’s parting those beautiful round cheeks and ducking his head to lick a long, wet stripe over Sherlock’s pretty pink hole, and Sherlock’s angry retort dies on his lips, replaced by a yelp that quickly turns into a long, low moan as John does it again, even more firmly this time.

“ _John._ ”

John hums in response, his own cock growing impossibly harder like it always does when Sherlock says his name in that way.  He noses over Sherlock’s entrance briefly while he wets his lips, getting used to this strange new taste, and then he’s circling that little pucker of flesh with his tongue, teasing at its edges while Sherlock presses desperately back against him.

“Oh god, oh  _god,_ John,  _John, please_ ,” Sherlock gasps, and John can hear his fingernails scratching against the wood of the table.  They haven’t done this before, not yet, and John is equal parts thrilled at having surprised Sherlock and aroused at the reaction his surprise is receiving.

He pulls back just a little, one hand rubbing soothingly up and down Sherlock’s back.  “Try and be still, love, so I can do this properly, mm?” he says softly.

Sherlock’s got his forehead pressed down against his hands, and he shakes his head frantically.  “Don’t stop,” is all he says, and it’s practically a whimper.

John smiles and parts Sherlock’s cheeks once more, leaning in to resume his position.  He presses his tongue flat to Sherlock’s hole, laving at it over and over again.  Sherlock holds as still as he can, but his voice is constantly breaking around moans and curses, and he’s begging for more, more,  _more,_ so John tenses his tongue as much as possible and presses the tip of it against Sherlock’s entrance, working that tight muscle until it starts to give.

“ _F-fuck!”_  Sherlock nearly sobs, and then whatever he says next is so muffled that John is almost sure he’s bitten into his own hand to keep from crying out.

John presses his lips flush to Sherlock’s arsehole in a crude imitation of a kiss, his mouth wrapped tight around that little hole, and he pushes his tongue in as far as he can, and Sherlock bucks back into the sensation, his moans still muffled in his hand.  John pulls his tongue back out briefly and then pushes back in, back and forth, back and forth until Sherlock is whimpering almost constantly, and John can’t help groaning because he’s fucking Sherlock’s arse with his  _mouth_ , and it’s bloody  _incredible_.

“John, John,  _John,_ you—I—oh  _god._ ”

John very rarely manages to completely deprive Sherlock of coherent thought, and he pulls back some, partly to breathe and partly to savor the smug feeling.

“John,” Sherlock says hoarsely, but that appears to be all he’s capable of saying, and John takes a good look at him.

He’d always known Sherlock was extremely sensitive to physical touch, but John had never expected him to react quite this strongly to this particular act.  He’s practically boneless against the table now, his skin slick with sweat, deep teeth marks in one hand, and his hair matted to his forehead.  John presses back up onto his feet because he’s not sure how much more of that Sherlock can take, and it would probably be better to test that out at a time when Sherlock wasn’t already more desperate than John had ever seen him.

He leans over the younger boy again, starting his mouth at the base of Sherlock’s spine this time and working his way up, tasting the saltiness of his sweat with each kiss.

“Are you all right?” he murmurs when he’s finally draped over Sherlock’s back, his lips moving against the shell of his ear.  He watches Sherlock’s head bob in a quick nod, and then his lovely throat works around a swallow.

“John,” he says again.

John nuzzles against his neck.  “Yes, love?”

Sherlock closes his eyes and takes a deep breath.  ”I need you inside me,” he pleads.  “Please, I can’t—I need to feel you.”

John smiles warmly against heated skin.  “Don’t worry, darling,” he says, pressing a kiss to Sherlock’s shoulder.  “I’ll take care of you.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are so appreciated. I am grateful for and love every comment I get. Specific questions? Find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).


	3. Chapter 3

He straightens up, his hands caressing Sherlock's body as they slide away, and he steps back.  Sherlock seems to undulate slightly beneath the touch, and he just barely opens his eyes when he feels John pull away, looking back at him from the corner of his eye.

“What are you doing?” he complains.  His voice scratchy like it is in the mornings when he's just woken up, and his eyes are hooded with the kind of heavy arousal that always makes him lazy and pliant.

John hands linger around the soft skin of Sherlock's arse, and he bends over to press a single kiss to the small of his back.  “Can't do anything without the proper supplies, now can I?” he murmurs there.

Sherlock makes a weak noise of irritation, but he doesn't move.  “Don't you dare take your time about it,” he says.

John chuckles and straightens up.  “Wouldn't dream of it.  Don't move,” he says, and he gives Sherlock's arse a little pat for emphasis.

“If you don't hurry I'm going to start without you,” Sherlock says over his shoulder as John heads for the door.

“Oh, no you won't.”

John smirks and winks at him before he's heading down the hallway. Without the distraction of teasing Sherlock John's own arousal becomes harder to ignore, and he presses his palm to the hard outline of his cock through his pajamas and hisses at the momentary almost-relief of having some pressure put to his aching erection.

He palms himself gently, just to get the edge off, and he's just entering his room when he hears Sherlock call from the kitchen, “If I'm not allowed to touch myself then, you're not allowed to either!”

A burst of laughter issues forth from John's chest, and he drops his hand immediately.  “Just practicing!  Don't want to lose my touch!” he calls back over his shoulder.  He hears an answering laugh from the kitchen, and his heart nearly aches because of the sound because Sherlock doesn't laugh nearly as much as he should.

John tugs out the drawer of his bedside table and leans over to rummage through it, searching for the lube.  It really shouldn't be as hard to find as it is considering how much sex he and Sherlock had been having lately. Then again, they hadn't actually used the lube in three days.  He vaguely remembers dropping the bottle on the bed once he'd gotten what he needed from it the other night, and he shuts the drawers and crouches down, looking beneath the bed.

“Aha!” he mutters, reaching beneath the bed to grab the bottle that's rolled beneath it.  He straightens up, pleased, and makes his way back out of the room.  He passes by the bathroom and then pauses.

“What's taking so  _long_?” Sherlock complains from the kitchen.

John ignores him and ducks quickly into the bathroom, setting the lube down on the counter and reaching for the mouthwash.  No time to actually brush his teeth, not with Sherlock being the impatient little berk he is, but a little washing up seems to be in order if he's planning on giving Sherlock a kiss anytime soon.  He figures it's the polite thing to do since he just had his tongue in Sherlock's arse.

The memory of that hits him as he's swishing the mouthwash around, the way Sherlock had practically gone incoherent, the way he'd moaned and squirmed and writhed for him.  God, he really can't wait to try that again.  He spits the mouthwash out, wipes his mouth with the back of his hand, then nods and retrieves the lube from the counter.

When he gets back into the kitchen he's surprised to find Sherlock no longer in the position in which John left him but rather sitting up, still fantastically nude, his chest and abdomen still slightly red from the way he was squirming against the table; his legs hanging over the side of the table, and his cock still very, very erect.  He looks slightly more alert than when John had left him draped over the table, but John knows it won't take much to reduce Sherlock to a trembling mess again.  He licks his lips and steps slowly towards the table.

“I thought I told you not to move,” he says when he reaches Sherlock, setting the lube down on the table beside him.

Sherlock scoots forward some, his hands sliding up John's chest.  “You wanted to kiss me,” he says.  “Just thought I'd make it easier for you.”

John purses his lips.  Trust Sherlock to know what he'd been doing in the bathroom.  “Maybe I just didn't like the taste,” he says, mainly for the sake of being contrary.

Sherlock smirks and leans forward, placing a kiss on John's collarbone.  “You always love the way I taste,” he whispers, kissing along John's shoulder between words.  “My body, my cock, my arse.  You can't wait to taste me again.  You have quite the… _appetite_ for me.”

One of John's hands comes up to cradle the back of Sherlock's head as the younger boy mouths up the side of his neck.  “I do love it when you talk dirty,” he says just before Sherlock's lips latch onto his own, and he's lost in another long, lazy moment of sloppy, perfect kisses.

It isn't until he feels the press of one of Sherlock's hands against his cock that John pulls back some, resting his forehead against Sherlock's and trying to catch his breath.

“I thought you wanted--”

“I do,” Sherlock cuts him off, his hand pushing more firmly against him.  “I want you to bend me over this table and fuck me like you mean it.”

John groans and rocks his hips some as Sherlock rubs him through his pajamas.

“But I was thinking while you were gone.  You've been so good to me tonight,” Sherlock goes on, his voice somehow even silkier than usual.  “And I've been neglecting you.”

“Believe me, Sherlock,” John pants, “nothing turns me on more than making you—oh  _Christ_ —than making you squirm for me.”

“Oh, I'm sure I can think of something that turns you on just as much,” Sherlock says, practically stroking him through the thin material now.

John can feel Sherlock moving, shifting forward, but he doesn't have the strength to open his eyes to look because the pressure on his cock feels too fucking good.  “Oh yeah?” he asks breathlessly.

Suddenly he's pushed back some as Sherlock slides off the table so that he's standing, nude and gorgeous, right up against John, his lips at John's ear.  

“I think my lips around your cock should do the trick,” he murmurs, and before John can even open his mouth to respond Sherlock is leaning in, kissing and sucking and biting his way down John's throat, lowering himself gracefully to his knees along the way.

“Sherlock, you don't have to—”

“Shut up, John, I never do anything I don't want to do.”

His kisses across John's chest, licking briefly but efficiently at his nipples and making John groan.  His lips travel slowly but surely down John's abdomen, his tongue dipping into his navel and swirling around in a frankly obscene manner, and John bites his lip, watching now with heavy-lidded eyes as Sherlock's hands curl around his hips and he nuzzles his face against John's clothed erection.

“ _Jesus_ ,” John says, his hands automatically winding into Sherlock's curls, not exerting pressure, just letting his fingers massage his skull gently while Sherlock mouths at his cock through his pajamas.

Sherlock licks at him just like that until his pajamas are damp with both saliva and precome and John is unintentionally bucking his hips into the sensation.

“Sherlock,” he breathes, and that's all it takes for Sherlock to pull back some and finally ease John's pajamas down his hips, freeing his cock and letting them fall down around his ankles.  Sherlock takes a moment just to admire him, licking his lips and rubbing soothingly at John's now bare thighs.

Then he looks up at John, meeting his eyes and smiling wickedly.  John can only swallow hard and watch as Sherlock curls one hand around the base of his cock and then proceeds to lean in and wrap his lips around the head.  John sucks in a sharp breath, and his hips jerk forward automatically.

“Sorry, sorry, just—oh god, your  _mouth_ ,” he gasps.

Sherlock just hums around him, clearly not bothered.  He raises his eyes, glancing up at John through his eyelashes, as he tightens his lips around the head of John's cock and hollows his cheeks, sucking hard and without warning.  John groans loudly, his hands tightening in Sherlock's hair which draws a whimper from the younger boy who pulls off with a pop in order to catch his breath, but he keeps his hand stroking up and down John's cock.

John gently pushes the damp hair from Sherlock's forehead, and Sherlock leans into the touch, just a quick moment of tenderness, a pause in the heat of the moment.  And then Sherlock is leaning in again and licking all around the head of John's cock.

“Oh god, baby, yeah,” John says, his eyes closing automatically.  As much as it hadn't been necessary, he's not going to forego enjoying the feeling of Sherlock's perfect lips and tongue on his cock.

Sherlock takes John in as far as he can, until the head of John's cock is pressed against the back of his throat.  John knows it's coming before it even happens, but still, when Sherlock swallows around him, he cries out, his back arching as sudden, exquisite tightness envelops him.

“Sh-Sherlock.   _Christ_ , Sherlock, you—you can't do that again, or I'll come.”

Sherlock pulls off again, his lips sliding wetly up John's cock and his tongue taking one last swipe at the head before he's looking up at John, breathing hard.

“Can't have that, now can we?” he says.

“Mm, not if you want my cock in that lovely arse of yours anytime soon,” John says, carding his fingers through Sherlock's hair.

Sherlock hums and leans in again, pressing kisses from the base of John's cock to the tip.  “Next time you can come down my throat,” he says, and he licks a drop of precome from the tip before he's pushing back onto his feet.

“Looking forward to it,” John says, his cock aching at the thought of no longer having that lovely mouth around it, but at least he's got something to look forward to.

He's ready for Sherlock when he's back on his feet, immediately pressing his lips to Sherlock's, parting them with his tongue so that he can taste himself in Sherlock's mouth.  Sherlock makes a small sound, and his arms come up around John's neck.

“C'mon, love,” John says against his lips, pushing Sherlock back until his arse hits the edge of the table again.  He steps out of his pajamas, which are still wrapped around his ankles, as they move forward.  “Back on the table for me.”

Sherlock moves to turn around, but John grips his hips tighter.

“On your back,” he specifies, and Sherlock's eyebrows draw down in confusion.

“I thought you were going to fuck me now,” he complains even as he pushes himself up onto the table again, facing John.

“Oh, I am, darling,” John says, putting a hand to Sherlock's chest and exerting enough pressure to make him lie back.  “But first I want to see every expression on that beautiful face while I work you open with my fingers.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are so appreciated. I am grateful for and love every comment I get. Specific questions? Find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).


	4. Chapter 4

Sherlock sucks his plush lower lip into his mouth, biting into it in an obscenely attractive way, as he allows John to push him onto his back. John lets his hand glide down along Sherlock's torso, over his stomach, fingers just barely brushing against his cock, making Sherlock's eyelashes flutter, before he pulls back and snatches the bottle of lube from the table. Sherlock eyes him as he squeezes some of it out onto his fingers, rubbing it between them to warm it a bit.

“You're going to be horrible and take your damn time about this, aren't you?” he asks suspiciously.

John smirks.  “You just relax and enjoy it, darling.  Legs up.”

Sherlock's eyes narrow briefly, but then he does as instructed, pulling his knees up and planting his feet on the table, lifting his hips some as if to say “Get on with it.”

John steps right up to the edge of the table, his dry hand going to one of Sherlock's knees and slipping soothingly down his thigh.  He leans in and presses a kiss to the other knee, and Sherlock squirms.

“So impatient,” John murmurs fondly into his skin.  

He brings his lubed hand down in between those legs, and he hears Sherlock's sharp intake of breath even before his fingers brush against his tight little hole.  When he does rub over it, though, Sherlock's hips jerk, and the breath rushes out of him.

“You know,” John says, his voice rougher than before, as he massages that spot firmly, “there is very little I love more than the way you look when I'm opening you up like this.”

Sherlock's Adam's apple bobs as he swallows, and he's just opened his mouth to reply when John presses his index finger inside of him, and he makes a sound like he's been choked, his hands scrabbling for purchase against the wooden table.

“J-John,” he groans.

John twists his finger around, not  _quite_  hitting that sweet spot, but edging just close enough to it to make Sherlock's back arch, the tendons in his neck pulling taut.

“Oh  _god_ , you are...s-such an arse,” he gasps.

“Baby, I've hardly even begun,” John says sweetly.

He pulls his finger out, and Sherlock seems to collapse a little into the table, his chest heaving already as he huffs through his nose, sweat beading on his forehead, his eyes tightly clenched shut.  John goes back to massaging that lovely pink hole with two fingers, letting his eyes wander leisurely all around Sherlock's beautiful body, a body laid out just for him, his to mark up and touch and kiss and worship.

His eyes land on Sherlock's right hand, which is currently sporting a perfect imprint of Sherlock's teeth.  He must have bitten himself hard to have made it that purple already, and John lets his free hand wander along Sherlock's naked body, along his thigh, over a bony hip, fingertips dancing over his ribs, until he can pick that bruised hand up off of the table and rub his thumb gently over the wound.

“You know I love to hear you,” he says, tracing over the indentations as his other fingers continue to work at Sherlock's hole.  “You can be loud for me, you don't have to smother it.”

Sherlock's hips lift some, and his voice is strained when he replies.  “It was—it was too much.  You surprised m-me, and I wasn't— _oh_ —wasn't expecting it to f-feel so good.”

John smiles, his gaze shifting to Sherlock's flushed face.  “I have a  _very_  talented tongue.”

Sherlock's hitched breath of laughter gets caught on a moan when John presses his finger back into the tight heat of Sherlock's body, slowly working a second one in right after.  The hand that John is still gently cradling twists and grips his own, Sherlock's fingers sliding in between his own and curling so tightly that his knuckles are white.

“John,” he pleads, and he's back to that point, the point at which he's so turned on that he's lost all his snark, all his attitude; he's just John's beautiful, horny little mess.

John licks his lips and returns Sherlock's grip around his hand, pressing forward until he's got Sherlock's hand pressed back against the table by his head, their fingers interlaced even as he works his  _other_  fingers in and out, in and out, slowly fucking into Sherlock's body.  He's leaning over him now, his abs aching, getting a bit of a workout as he strains not to put too much pressure onto Sherlock's hand.

“Tell me,” he says softly.

Sherlock's other hand grips his shoulder as he arches up against John as much as he can.  His eyes finally open, slow and lethargic with lust.  “Tell you...tell you what?”

John dips his fingers in as far as he can, feeling for Sherlock's prostate.  He knows he's found it when Sherlock cries out, his back arching up off the table.

“You know what,” John says, rubbing relentlessly at that spot, Sherlock's fingernails digging hard into the skin of his shoulder.

Sherlock whimpers, his head shaking slightly, curls bouncing.  “Not—not yet.”  He yelps when John suddenly releases his hand and pulls his fingers back out, straightening up and reaching for more lube.

“Why not?” John asks as he slicks up his fingers once more.

Sherlock's toes curl into the wood as John slips those two fingers back inside of him easily, so easily, pulling them out and pushing them back in a few times before adding a third.  The younger boy's hand curls around John's forearm, clutching at him as he pushes into the sensation.

“I want—oh  _god—_ I want you in-inside me when I say it,” Sherlock gasps, rocking his hips as much as he can.

John breathes out unevenly, loving the idea of those certain words coming out of Sherlock's mouth while John's fully inside of him, fucking him nice and slow.  He crooks his fingers again, brushing against that sensitive bundle of nerves, and Sherlock keens, his teeth sinking hard into his bottom lip again.

“John,  _John_ , please, I—I c-can't—”

“Not yet,” John says, echoing Sherlock's words from before.  He picks up Sherlock's hand again in his own free one, intertwining their fingers and pressing the younger boy's hand back against the table again just like before.  “Not yet, baby.”  

He leans over him, just barely brushing his lips over Sherlock's, his fingers still working in and out of him relentlessly.  He knows he's pushing Sherlock nearly to the edge this way; they've established over the past few months that Sherlock is perfectly capable of coming without ever having his cock touched.  But he loves seeing him this way, so vulnerable and open in a way that he never is with anyone else, anywhere else, ever.  This is John's, and John's alone, and as Sherlock's lips part beneath his own he rubs over that prostate roughly and Sherlock nearly sobs into the kiss, his mouth going slack as John licks into it and fucks him with his fingers.

He kisses down Sherlock's neck, down his chest, avoiding his nipples because he feels like that might actually make Sherlock come at the moment.  When he finally straightens up, gently extricating his fingers from the tight confines of Sherlock's body, Sherlock is boneless against the table, sweaty and flushed and so gorgeous it makes John's heart hurt.

“John,” Sherlock says, his voice hoarse and weak.  He lifts one arm, his hand hanging limply from his wrist as if he's trying to beckon John back to him but doesn't quite have the energy.

John takes hold of his hand and pulls him up until he's sitting again, their foreheads pressed together, their chests rising and falling against one another's.

“You're...a cruel man...John Watson,” Sherlock pants, his hands ghosting down John's sides.

John kisses him because he has to, he can't  _not_  do it in that moment, when Sherlock is undeniably  _his. “_ You love it,” he whispers in between kisses.  “You love me.”

Sherlock smiles against his lips, one hand smoothing up John's chest, the other reaching beside him for the lube.  ”I'll say it when you're inside me.”

“Say it now,” John pleads, smearing his lips along Sherlock's jaw, down his neck.  He knows he's just as far gone as Sherlock is, if not physically then at least emotionally.  “Say it, Sherlock,  _say it.”_

Sherlock's hand, slick with lube, suddenly closes around John's cock, and John shudders, his forehead falling to Sherlock's shoulder, just the way it did at the beginning of the night.  

Sherlock sucks John's earlobe between his lips, tugging at it lightly with his teeth, and then he whispers, “Fuck me first.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Comments are so appreciated. I am grateful for and love every comment I get. Specific questions? Find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).


	5. Chapter 5

John lets out a shaky breath as Sherlock's hand tightens around his cock, his thumb rubbing over the head, mixing precome with lube and causing John to buck his hips forward some.

“Sherlock...”

“ _Now_ , John,” Sherlock says urgently.

“It's a bit— _ah_ —difficult in this—”

He hasn't even finished speaking, however, before Sherlock is releasing his grip on John's cock, dropping down from the table onto his feet, and, without so much as a peck on the cheek, turning around and bending forward over the table, resting on his elbows and sticking his perfect, lush arse up in the air.  He looks back at John over his shoulder, eyes black with desire and his hair sticking to his forehead.

“I've waited long enough, John, now  _fuck me_ ,” he says, and his voice is the perfect combination of demanding and breathless.

John, chest heaving, licks his lips as he stares down at the long expanse of Sherlock's back, the curve of his spine visible beneath creamy, slightly freckled skin, that beautiful arse, practically dripping with lube and silently begging for John's cock.  He steps forward, one hand smoothing down the length of Sherlock's back and up again as he presses his hips against Sherlock's arse, his cock, slick with lube, sliding over the crest between those two plump cheeks.  Sherlock squirms slightly, pressing back against John, but John presses down firmly against the small of his back, holding him still.

“ _John—_ ”

“Shhh, just...let me,” John says softly, and Sherlock's head falls forward onto his arms with a quiet groan.

Sherlock was always in such a bloody hurry, but John'd learned that taking it slowly always yielded much more satisfying results.  He places his palm flat on the table by Sherlock's hip, bending over him just a bit, and wraps the other hand around the base of his own cock, shuddering slightly at the pressure, and he eases the head, beaded with precome, down from the base of Sherlock's spine, in between his arse cheeks, slowly nearing his hole.  Sherlock gasps and tries to spread his legs wider, pushing back into the sensation.

John groans as the head of his cock moves down between the soft, gently squeezing flesh of Sherlock's arse.  It's such a perfect, unbearable tease, and when he rubs the tip of his cock over that tight, wet little hole and feels it flutter as if trying to pull him in he nearly gives up control right then and there.

“John—” Sherlock pants, and he's practically writhing.  “John,  _please.”_

John has to bite his lip, hard, to keep from just shoving in, but he manages, tightening his grip on his cock and nudging forward some, rubbing the slick head around Sherlock's hole, teasing him with it but not pushing inside just yet.

“God, just look at you,” he murmurs as Sherlock whines and tries to squirm his way onto John's cock.  “So fucking gorgeous, just like this.”

“You just...like making me...beg,” Sherlock gasps.

“Mmm, no, baby, that's not it,” John says, his voice only slightly strained as he tries to fight his ever growing need to be inside Sherlock  _right now_.  

“Then—then what is it?!” Sherlock practically pleads.

John wraps his free hand around Sherlock's bony hip and presses his cock right up against that needy little hole.  ”I just like watching you—” he rocks his hips forward, pressing into Sherlock in one, smooth motion, and the rest of his words come out in a rush of expelled breath, “—fall apart.”

Sherlock's whole body jerks, and he makes a sound somewhere between a moan and a sob as John buries his cock inside of him.  His hands scrabble for purchase on the table, fingernails scratching at the wood, as John tightens his hands around Sherlock's bony hips and slowly pulls back out,  _almost_ all the way, until just the head of his cock is still inside.  Sherlock presses up onto his toes, trying to push back, but John holds him in place, biting his lip as he pushes back inside, so achingly slowly.

“J-John,” Sherlock moans.  “Oh  _god_ , I need—I  _need_ —”

“What do you need, baby?” John asks, voice breathless, and he circles his hips as much as he can, making Sherlock cry out.

“M-more,” he chokes.  “ _Please_ , John, I—I c-can't—”

He breaks off as John pulls back and pushes in, just a  _bit_  faster, just a  _bit_  harder this time.  With his cock buried completely inside of the younger boy, John presses his hands to the table on either side of Sherlock and leans over him, pressing messy, open-mouthed kisses to his sweaty back.  Sherlock is shaking like a leaf beneath him, so obviously on edge; John is sure he would come at the first touch of John's hand to his cock.

“D-don't stop,” Sherlock begs, his voice muffled in his arms.

“Never,” John breathes, shaking his head, his lips skimming the smooth skin between Sherlock's shoulder blades.  He stays as he is, draped over Sherlock's back, and thrusts shallowly in and out, in and out, Sherlock's tight heat enveloping his cock and squeezing around him.  Sherlock's breathing is ragged, his chest rising and falling rapidly hard beneath John's head.

“Talk to me, love,” John murmurs, still rocking gently.

Sherlock whimpers, shakes his head frantically.

“You want more, don't you?” John asks soothingly.

Sherlock nods hard, barely managing to gasp out a “ _Yes._ ”

John smirks against his back and presses another kiss there, licking at the salty skin.  “Then you know what to say.”

A somewhat hysterical breath of laughter breaks free from Sherlock's throat.  “You—you think you d-deserve it after—after all you've p-put me through?”

John's smirk widens.  “Would you like me to stop?”

“You wouldn't.”

John straightens up immediately and, fully aware that he won't have to stop at all, he begins to pull out of Sherlock, which has Sherlock up on his elbows with his face turned back to John with a glare so fast it almost makes John's head spin.

“Don't you  _dare_ ,” Sherlock tries to snarl, but the effect is lost in the breathy quality to his voice.

John stills, his cock halfway inside of Sherlock now.  One hand slides around from its spot on Sherlock's hip, his fingertips just barely ghosting along the length of Sherlock's cock.

“ _Oh_ ,” Sherlock breathes, and his eyes fall shut, his head dropping forward again.

“C'mon, sweetheart,” John says, pushing his hips forward again even as his fingers continue to tease Sherlock's cock.  “Tell me.”

Sherlock's whole body trembles at the touch, and he mumbles something that John can't quite make out.

He wraps his hand all the way around Sherlock's length, fingers tight.  “What was that?”

Sherlock's back arches, and he gasps out, “ _I love you.”_

Something in John's chest seems to burst, as it does every time Sherlock says those words, so rarely uttered out of Sherlock's own self-consciousness.  Now that he's gotten that prize, however, his brain focuses in on how fucking hard he is and how badly they both need to just  _come_  already.  He groans, and, in a haze of adrenaline and lust, he pulls out and thrusts hard into Sherlock, his fingers tightening around the base of Sherlock's cock to keep him from coming right then and there.  He does it again, and Sherlock's breath stutters in his chest.  He keeps going, harder and faster than before, deeper inside of him every time.

“You perfect...exquisite... _gorgeous_  creature,” John says in between thrusts.  “God, I love you, Sherlock, I love you so fucking much, you know that, right?  You know that.”

Sherlock whines, his hands moving to clutch at the edges of the table as it slides forward some with their enthusiasm.  John lets go of Sherlock's cock and grips his hips with both hands, pulling him back even as he pushes forward, and when Sherlock cries out, his back curving inward, John knows he's found his prostate, and he grinds into him, pressing just there, making Sherlock's whole body tense up.

“That's it,” John groans as he feels Sherlock's muscles tighten, sees his knuckles turn white where his hands are wrapped around the table edges.  “That's it, c'mon, baby.”

“John!   _John_ , I—I c-can't—”

“I know, come for me, sweetheart.”

“ _Touch me_ ,” Sherlock pleads.

John doesn't need telling twice.  He pushes as far into Sherlock as he can, lays over him again, nipping at the notches in his spine and reaching beneath him to grip Sherlock's cock, slick in his hand as he strokes him hard, his hips moving in little erratic thrusts as he nears his own orgasm.

John can't see Sherlock's face, but he can imagine the expression on it—eyes screwed tightly shut, cupid's bow lips parted around tiny gasped little “ _Ohs”_  and “ _Ahs,_ ” the creases between his brows deeper than ever.  John loves Sherlock's face in every situation but  _especially_ when he comes.  But he knows Sherlock loves it this way, with John behind him, fucking into him and whispering to him how beautiful he is, how perfect and lovely and absolutely  _necessary_  he is.

“C'mon, gorgeous, come for me,” John pants.  “Let me feel you, just like this.”

And Sherlock stiffens up everywhere, John's name a mere breath on his lips as his cock pulses in John's hand, as he tightens simultaneously around John's dick, making John moan and press into him just a bit harder.

“That's it,” John mumbles against his back.  “So good, baby, so good for me.”

“John,” Sherlock says, and it sounds broken, and it makes John's throat ache.

He presses kisses into Sherlock's spine and rocks into him, gentler now, only needing that little push to bring himself over the edge.  “Almost there, sweetheart, just—”

“John, I love you,” Sherlock says, his voice heavy and sated, and John sucks in a sharp breath, thrusting into him one last time before he's coming, his body pulling taut and his heart pounding as he spills himself inside of Sherlock.  His hands slide up and down Sherlock's sides, slick with sweat, and he smothers his groan in the younger boy's back.

They stay like that for John doesn't know how long, John draped over Sherlock, his softening cock still inside of him.  John's sure Sherlock's going to have a very chafed chest in the morning the way he'd been sliding on that table, and he's positive there will be bruises on his hips and love bites on his neck.  The thought makes him let out another soft groan, and Sherlock makes an inquisitive sound in his throat, clearly too exhausted to voice an actual question.

“Just thinking about how beautiful you're going to look in the morning,” John mumbles, and Sherlock lets out a huff of laughter.

“Let me up, you fiend,” he says.

John grumbles a complaint but straightens up anyway, slipping out of Sherlock with a hiss.  Sherlock pushes himself up on shaking arms and turns around, leaning his weight back against the table.  His usually pale chest is rubbed red, and one of his cheeks has a definite table imprint on it; his hair is mashed on one side, and his neck is riddled with marks.  John's never seen anyone look so fucking lovely in his life.  

He steps forward, cupping Sherlock's face in his hands and pressing up into a slow, languid kiss.  Sherlock sighs into it, his hands wrapping loosely around John's wrists, and when they part for breath he presses their foreheads together.

“I told you,” he says.

John frowns, confused.  “Told me what?”

Sherlock nods to the abandoned countertop.  “The ice cream melted.”

John just stares at him for a moment, completely thrown, before he remembers that's how this all started.  Sherlock eating ice cream on the counter at an indecent hour in the night.  And then John is laughing, his face cracking wide into the biggest smile he can remember ever making, and he's laughing and pulling Sherlock into his arms, sticky as they both are, and laughing into his shoulder, and Sherlock smiles sheepishly and then he's giggling along with John, and it's only after a good solid five minutes of joint hysteria that Sherlock nuzzles his face into John's neck and says, softly, “Take me to bed, John.”

And John does exactly that.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> AAAAAND that's the end of the porn marathon. That was ridiculous. I would be thrilled to read comments because this thing was a beast. Specific questions? Find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).

**Author's Note:**

> Comments are so appreciated. I am grateful for and love every comment I get. Specific questions? Find me on tumblr at [vitruvianwatson](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com) and be sure to check out my [writing tag](http://vitruvianwatson.tumblr.com/tagged/liz-writes-things).


End file.
